Beautiful Lies (19 page)

“I know where the police station is,” she says, an edge to her voice. “I’ve lived in this town my entire life.” She glances at me. “What are you looking for?”

“My sunglasses. I could have sworn I put them in here somewhere.” As we’re talking, I keep glancing out the
window, afraid that someone will spot the two of us skipping school together. I’ve done it plenty of times before, but I don’t know that Rachel ever has. And Kimber obviously hasn’t. What kind of a person—what kind of an eighteen-year-old teenager—is concerned with having perfect attendance?

“Why do you need sunglasses?” Her hands are at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel, just like we were taught to do in driver’s ed class. She’s clearly nervous, hunched low in her seat to avoid being seen, gripping the wheel so tightly that her knuckles are white. She takes slow, deep breaths in and out through her mouth, like she’s trying to keep herself calm.

It’s a bright day, but the sun is behind a patch of cumulus clouds as we drive. That’s not why I need the sunglasses, though. “I don’t want people to recognize me,” I tell her.

“Yeah, me neither. My mother would kill me. I’m not kidding.” She nods toward the glove box. “I think there might be a baseball cap in there. Take a look.”

When the door to the compartment falls open, a whole mess of papers and pens and, yup, a hat spills onto the floor of the car, which is otherwise spotless. Once I’ve put it on, pulling the brim down to hide my face, I start poking through the stuff on the floor. If Kimber minds my unabashed snooping, she doesn’t say anything; she just stares straight ahead, concentrating on the narrow road as
she drives. The speed limit is thirty-five, and she’s going twenty miles per hour. The walking trail is on our right, clearly visible as it runs parallel to the road for the next few miles. It’s the only trail in town, an extension of the same one that goes through my neighborhood and curves down into Hollick Park; the same trail where Rachel and I last stood alone together, preparing to play our game on Saturday night. Right now there are quite a few people on it, out for bike rides or morning jogs. Unless my sister left the fair in somebody’s car, she would have had to use the trail to go anywhere else; the only road leading out of Hollick Park is a windy two-lane that leads directly to the highway.

“Hey, there’s Homeless Harvey,” Kimber says, pointing with her index finger. She draws a tiny loop in the air, as though she’s circling his face. “I’ve never seen him out this far before.” She gives her car’s horn a light, friendly
honk
. Before I have the time to realize that we’re being awfully conspicuous, we both wave at him.

Homeless Harvey has been a constant fixture on the trail in Greensburg for months now. Nobody knows his real name, or where he came from, or where he goes when he’s not walking along with his dog, a huge filthy mutt with a red-and-white bandanna tied around its neck. Nobody even knows for sure that he’s actually homeless, but it sure seems that way. He always wears the same outfit, no matter what the weather is like: faded jeans and a plain black T-shirt. He
carries the same navy-blue backpack with him everywhere. His dog doesn’t have a collar. They both look like they could really use a bath.

As soon as they’re out of our sights, Harvey and his dog slip from my thoughts, and I find myself focusing on Rachel again. We’re almost to the police station. I’m trying to rehearse what I’m going to say in my head, but I’m having a hard time focusing. As a rule, cops make me nervous. Most of my encounters with them have been less than pleasant.

Kimber pulls into a parking space on the street, more than a block away from the station.

“What are you doing?” I ask. “Why are we so far away?”

She gives me a dubious look. “
Duh,
” she says. “I’m a criminal. So are you, for that matter. I don’t know why you even bothered trying to disguise yourself if you’re going to walk right in there and present yourself to the police.”

I roll my eyes; I can’t help it. “What the hell are you talking about, Kimber?”

“We’re
truant,
” she says. “It’s illegal.”

I take off the hat I’m wearing and toss it into her lap. “Right. By all means, then, stay in the car. Wear the hat. Do you have any additional means of concealing your identity? Because it’s almost ten o’clock, you know. I’m sure the authorities have organized a search party to look for us by now.”

“That’s not funny,” she says, digging around in her purse.
As I’m getting out of the car, she says, “Wait. How long do you think you’ll be gone? I only have two quarters.”

“Why do you need quarters?”

“To pay the meter,” she says.

“But you’re waiting in the car. If the meter maid comes down the street, just drive away. I’ll find you.”

She stares at me like it’s the most ridiculous idea she’s ever heard. “It costs money to park on the street, Rachel. I’m not going on a crime spree with you today.”

I shake my head. “Sorry. I don’t have any quarters. I’m going now, okay? Text me if you need anything. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

As I’m walking away, she puts down the passenger-side window, leans over, and shouts, “Society depends on its members to do the right thing in order to preserve our morality! Otherwise there would be anarchy!”

She yells loud enough to attract the attention of a few nearby pedestrians. Apparently her desire to lecture me on the finer points of social order outweighs the importance of keeping a low profile.

The police station is dingy and depressing. As I walk in, there’s a small reception area to my left. A drab-looking middle-aged woman sits at the desk, chatting on the phone as she stares at her computer. She’s on the website for the Home Shopping
Network. It only takes me a few seconds of listening to understand that she’s placing an order for a porcelain Marie Osmond doll.

I stand in front of her, waiting as she chatters away. She’s either so absorbed in her task that she’s oblivious to my presence, or else she’s deliberately ignoring me. I help myself to a handful of Hershey’s kisses sitting in a bowl on the counter, then I cough a few times, trying to get her attention. All she does is glance at me, like I’m nothing more than a minor distraction, and go back to her conversation. Yes, she would like the extended two-year warranty. Yes, she would like two-day shipping for an additional $18.99.
To hell with work,
I think to myself.
Gotta get that Marie Osmond doll before the weekend
.

She finally hangs up. “Yes?” she asks me, giving me a doubtful once-over with her heavily made-up eyes, their lids caked with green shadow, her lashes so thick with mascara that I immediately think of tarantulas. “If you’re here to pay an outstanding parking ticket, you need to go to the third floor.”

“I need to talk to someone,” I tell her. I give her a quick explanation of who I am and say I need to speak with Officer Balest or Officer Martin.

Before I can finish, she starts shaking her head. “Balest isn’t in today,” she says, cracking open a can of soda that she produces from a mini-fridge beneath her desk. “He’s on a hunting trip up north. Bow and arrow, I think.”

Her indifference makes me want to scream. My fists are clenched so tightly at my sides that my fingernails dig into my palms.

“What about Officer Martin?” I demand. Despite my best efforts to stay calm, I can feel tears welling in my eyes. “Is he here, or did he go hunting too?”

She gives me a long, blank look. I return the stare. Finally, she picks up her phone’s headset and punches a few numbers into the dialer. “Hey, Cindy, it’s Larraine,” she says, making no effort to disguise her irritation with me. “Can you tell me if Ryan’s in the building?” She pauses. “Yeah. Uh-huh. … Okay, then. … What? No, I use a Crock-Pot instead of a double boiler. … I don’t know, eight or ten hours. Or you can put it all together the night before. … That’s right, three cans of chipped beef. Four if you’ve got a crowd to feed. … All righty. Good luck, honey. Bye, now.” She hangs up and gives me a frown. “He’ll be right down,” she says, obviously disappointed that she doesn’t get to turn me away.

Within a couple of minutes, the elevator doors beside me open, and Officer Martin steps out. He’s accompanied by a big long-haired dog whose breed I can’t identify.

“Rachel Foster.” He smiles, shaking my hand, his med-alert bracelet gleaming beneath the harsh overhead lights. “Follow me,” he says, pointing. “We can talk somewhere more private.”

He leads me into a small windowless room. The walls are painted cinderblock. The only furniture is a small metal
folding table and two wooden chairs. The dog follows him inside, then he shuts the door. As we take our seats, the dog lies down at Officer Martin’s feet, resting its head on its paws.

“This is Cookie,” he says, nodding at the pile of fur. He gives an embarrassed shrug. “The name wasn’t my idea.”

I couldn’t care less about the dog’s name, or what it’s doing in here with us. “Are you looking for my sister?” I blurt out. “She’s been gone for two days. Why aren’t you trying harder to find her?”

“Calm down, Rachel,” he says, opening the folder he’s been carrying beneath his arm. Inside is a short typewritten note, only a few paragraphs long, and a photo of me. It’s last year’s school photo. My aunt and uncle must have given it to the police before I got home yesterday.

I wait as he takes a moment to read over the notes. “Tell me about this boyfriend,” he says. “Robin Lang.”

I stare at my hands, which are shaking in my lap. I feel guilty for having given the police Robin’s full name in the first place, but I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. “I don’t think he would hurt my sister.”

“How well do you know him?”

For some reason I can’t look at him. “I don’t. I’ve never met him.”

“Then what makes you so certain he’s not dangerous?”

“I don’t know. I just am.”

“Okay … Rachel, I know you’re concerned about Alice. I
need you to be honest with me right now. Is there anything you haven’t told us that might be relevant to her disappearance? It could even be something little, something that only seems odd in hindsight. Had she been acting strange lately? Has she participated in any illegal activities, maybe something that could get her in trouble? Take your time. Think hard.”

The room is silent except for the dog’s light snore as I pretend to contemplate the questions. In reality, I’m thinking about the money underneath my bed, and the likelihood that whoever has Rachel is really after me. Robin was right about one thing—if the police are going to be any help at all, I have to tell them something resembling the truth about the money I stole. But I’m not sure how to do it, not without revealing who I truly am. If I admit that we switched places, Officer Martin will have to tell Officer Balest—that is, once he returns from his hunting trip. The police will tell my aunt and uncle, who will surely tell
someone,
and then who knows who might find out? Our town is pretty small. There has to be a way around explaining the whole story. I need to figure out how to give him just enough information to motivate him to search harder for my sister, without revealing everything.

Before I can fully organize my thoughts, he says, “Can I ask you something, Rachel?”

I nod. “Sure.”

“Look at me. Let me see your face.”

I go cold. But I raise my head, my eyes meeting his gaze. He seems kind and concerned, not nearly as harsh and intimidating as Officer Balest. I feel like I can trust him.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, not accusing. “You have a lot of makeup on today.”

I nod again. “Yes.”

“Are you trying to conceal something? When I saw you yesterday, your face looked puffy. I can see it now, too, underneath your makeup. Do you have bruises?”

I don’t answer him; my silence is enough of a response.

“Tell me how they happened,” he presses.

Above us, one of the fluorescent lights flickers a few times. Cookie raises her head and whimpers.

“Officer Martin—” I begin.

“You can call me Ryan,” he interrupts. He glances at the lights, then down at the dog and says, “Cookie, settle,” in a firm tone. To me, he says, “I’m sorry. Go on.”

“Ryan.” Addressing him by his first name makes me feel more relaxed; I imagine he knows that.

I take a shaky breath. I can’t
believe
what I’m about to tell him. “Have you ever heard of something called twin phenomenon?”

“Twin phenomenon,” he repeats. “I don’t think so. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

I take another breath. I’m not sure where to start. No matter how I begin, I have little doubt that Ryan is going to think I sound crazy. But I have to try.

I spend the next twenty minutes or so talking almost nonstop, explaining the idea that twins can be connected by an invisible link, that their bond can be so powerful they’re able to sense things about each other, even when they’re not together. I tell him the story about my sister choking on gum when she was a child, about the hornet’s nest in her bike pouch. I tell him about my feelings of dread at the fair on Saturday night, trying to explain how distinctly I sensed her presence vanish.